One of the things I learned yesterday was that I don’t hate driving as much as I think I do. I had a perfectly nice first long drive of the day, despite traffic, because I did not have to be at my destination at a particular time and because I had good music.

The second long drive of the day was less pleasant because I was late. I knew, leaving, I was going to be late. Worrying about it did not make anything go better and yet I could not stop, even by singing loudly.

On the third drive, I had the benefit of company, in the form of T.R. and his friend, who talked and laughed and plotted all the way home.

By the fourth drive, I was tired and hot. I thought longingly of bed. That last symptom continued on the final leg of my driving journey, but I was miraculously saved by T.R. accidentally confusing the words parasitical and pharmaceutical. We have now mapped out a basic concept for a comic book: parasitical pharmacists are implanting their eggs, in the form of pills, in all our bodies. Eventually, we will die and legions of tiny pharmacists in their white coats will eat their way out of our decaying flesh to make their way to Targets and other pharmacies to continue to cycle, except for the particularly creepy ones who become street corner drug pushers.

Once one of us learns to draw, we should be unstoppable. Except for the part where it is hard to drive and draw at the same time.